


It's Not Supposed To Go Like This

by the_sun_is_a_deadly_laser



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King, Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BUT LIKE IT'S ALL FINE, Ben as Susan, Bev as Tatiana, Bill as Barb, Curt and Owen babyyyyyy, Depression, Eddie as Owen, Eddie's Gone Through A Lot, Fluff, M/M, Making Fun of Hitler, Mike as the Informant, Panic Attacks, Reunited And Something Is Wrong, Richie as Curt, Spies Are Forever AU, Stan as Cynthia, based off of a heartbreaking musical, chimera, goddamn it, it's really good i promise, mentions of Hitler, they take down an entire international threat together yk just a typical tuesday, they're spies, will be talked about
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27959240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_sun_is_a_deadly_laser/pseuds/the_sun_is_a_deadly_laser
Summary: It was just a normal mission. It was supposed to be a normal mission.He didn't think it would end with him watching Eddie slip on HIS banana peel and fall to his death. And Richie didn't do anything to stop it. He didn't try to help. He had to watch as the love of his life hit the pavement before he ran away.He killed Eddie. He could've saved him, but he didn't move. He had been frozen.Richie remembered the fear in Eddie's eyes as he fell. He remembered Eddie's hand reaching out but Richie didn't reach back. It was a constant nightmare of his in these past four years.He left his job with A.S.S. He drank himself into oblivion every night. He grew an awful beard. He couldn't even recall the last time he ate. Stan was always on him to come back, but he couldn't. He couldn't. Richie killed Eddie. Eddie was dead because of him.How could he move on?He couldn't.Sometimes, when he was wasted enough, he could almost feel Eddie's hands rubbing his shoulders and his voice in his ear. But Eddie was dead.(you think you know what's gonna happen, but no, no you don't. read the story to find out.)
Relationships: Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	It's Not Supposed To Go Like This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BEASBeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BEASBeth/gifts).



> i'm mad. Spies Are Forever is right up there with Falsettos for emotional pain, but SAF is a different kind. it's not a sobbing pain, but a suffocating pain. right in the chest.
> 
> Richie's like 25 and Eddie's 23, but for most of the story, they are 29 and 27
> 
> *************TRIGGER WARNING*******************
> 
> Alcoholism  
> Mentions of Hilter and the Holocaust  
> Gun violence  
> Torture  
> Making fun of Hilter (idk, the Holocaust is a serious thing that happened, I think about it every day)  
> Hitler's nephew is there, he's trying to take over the world  
> Death
> 
> This is kind of a touchy musical, I really don't mean to offend anyone by writing this.
> 
> Beta'd by the amazing BEASbeth
> 
> ONE LAST THING: THIS IS PART ONE OF TWO BC I'VE BEEN GOING THROUGH A REALLY BAD DEPRESSIVE EPISODE AND WOULD LOVE SOME (hopefully positive and nice) FEEDBACK FROM PEOPLE WHO DON'T KNOW THE MUSICAL AND PLEASE BE NICE I'M LITERALLY DEAD INSIDE RN AND THIS HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY DRAFTS FOT ALMOST TWO MONTHS

_"Richie, pass me one of those chargers!"_

_As he did, Richie grinned. Eddie paused. "What's our record?" he asked. "Six minutes?"_

_Eddie groaned. "I don't like that look in your eyes. Yeah, six minutes."_

_"You love it. Think we can do it in five?"_

_He watched Eddie scoff. "Make it four."_

_Grinning, Richie set the timer. He knew Eddie couldn't resist a challenge. He watched as the shorter man ran away to place the bomb. "Atta boy, Eds!" he called._

_"Don't call me that!" Eddie yelled back._

_"Sure thing, Runbuns!" He lowered his voice and grinned at the detonator. "Three it is."_

_\---_

Richie jerked awake as someone poured water on his head. He flung his arms around wildly. 

"The fuck?!" he yelled, his words slurring. "Fight me, ya bastard! Come on! Do you think I can't take you? You- ya fuckin'-" 

"Richie," came Laura's bored voice. "Up." 

"Oooooh, Laura," he said sloppily. "You think you can make me move?" 

"It's my bar," she said coldly. "Yeah, I can make you move." 

He pointed at her with a shaky finger. "Touche." 

She tipped him an imaginary hat. "Thank you. Do you need me to call you a cab?" 

"Please." 

She looked at her phone as Richie tried to shake the water off of himself like a dog. It wasn't as effective as he wanted it to be. 

"Okay," she said after a moment. "It's outside." 

He stared at her, squinting. "How did it get here that fast?" 

She leaned against the bar and knocked back a shot that he hadn't taken before he blacked out. "I ordered it for you half an hour ago. It just showed up." 

Richie fell up against the bar as he tried to boop her nose. "You're so smart." 

"I know." 

"And pretty." 

"Yes, you homo. I am very pretty." 

"I wish you were straight," he whined. Laura threw back her head and laughed, clear as a bell. 

"I'm not the problem!" she protested. "I'm-! You're gay as hell!" 

He managed to put a finger to her lips. "Shhhhhhhhhh. You're ruining our moment." 

She pushed his hand off of her face. "What moment?" 

Richie gestured to the almost empty bar. It was 1 am on a Wednesday. _"This_ moment." 

She continued washing glasses and raised an eyebrow at him. "The moment you won't remember tomorrow, you mean." 

"Laurasia Zardari," he said loudly, probably too loudly because Laura winced, "I remember everything about you. _Allllll_ the time." 

"Hmm," came Laura's nonchalant noise, "horrifying. Any examples?" 

"And I have people that can _find_ you," he said as she grinned. "I'm Special fucking Agent _Tozier."_

"Richie," Laura said carefully, trying not to laugh, "I really don't think you should say that in a place where people are listening." 

He nodded. He nodded. He nodded a lot. And a little more. "Yes," he said, whispering loudly, "yeah, that's smart." 

Amused, Laura nodded. "Yeah. Cab. Outside. He already has your address. Go." 

Richie nodded and pushed himself off the bar to promptly run into a table. 

"Need help, stud?" called Laura. 

He waved his hand blindly. "No. Noooo, I'm fine. See you later, Laur!" 

"I really hope you don't!" came her singsong voice. 

"I'm not a fucking alcoholic!" 

She muttered something behind his back. He thought she said, "Kettle, meet pot." 

He stumbled out of the bar into the cold December air. It was the 16th. There was a cab. He fumbled with the handle and fell in, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the ceiling. 

"1989 Derry Lane?" asked a voice. Male. Kind of familiar. Too familiar. 

"Yeah, that's me," Richie said, tripping over syllables. 

"Alright. Your friend already paid. You should thank her." 

The man kept talking, but Richie wasn't listening. Instead, he leaned forward, hit his head on the headrest of the passenger seat, and tried to get a good look at the driver. It clicked and he climbed into the front seat, making the driver swerve and curse. 

"Richie, what the fuck are you doing?!" 

"Mike!" he yelled when he was in the seat. "Dude! How've you been?" 

Mike huffed. "Buckle up, you moron." 

Richie did, only missing the slot fifteen times. "Are you a taxi driver now?" 

Mike gave him a sidelong look. "You really think Stan would let me quit? I know too much. The only way I'm getting out of this job is death." 

"Awwww," Richie cooed, "you're here just for _me?"_

"Oh my god," Mike groaned. "Stan sent me. We could use your help."

Richie felt sober for a second. 

"No." 

"Richie, come on-" 

"No!" 

"Rich-" 

"No! I'm not- I can't go back!" 

"Richie," Mike said carefully as Richie was regretting ever getting in his cab, "it was four years ago. You need to mo- you need to forgive yourself." 

Laughing bitterly, Richie slammed his hand into the divider. "I killed my-" He couldn't say that. It was 1961. It was illegal. "I killed my _best friend,"_ he spat. "I think you can figure out why I can't forgive myself." 

"Jesus fucking Christ, Richie," Mike yelled. "Okay, you don't need to forgive yourself, but you can't drink yourself to death every day. And- dude, stop doing that." 

Richie had started mocking Mike with his hand. 

"No. Fuck you." 

"Rich..." 

Richie felt a cold jolt throughout his entire body. He held up his finger and turned to Mike. "Do _not_ call me that." 

Mike held a hand up in surrender, not taking his eyes off the road. "I'm sorry. Jeez. Stan needs you back. There's something happening, I can't say much here, but Von Nazi-" 

He choked on his own spit before he started laughing. _"Von Nazi?"_

His friend cracked a smile. "Stupid, isn't it?" 

"It's _so_ stupid." 

"Yeah. Anyway, Von Nazi. He hired someone, a new player on the board. He's killed over a thousand people since he surfaced a year and a half ago." 

Nodding, Richie hummed. "Impressive." 

"'Impressive?'" Mike repeated. "It's _terrible_. There's a deal going down. We need you there." 

"Don't you have any other agents?" he demanded. 

"We do," Mike said desperately, "but come on, that's totally your deal! You're the best we've ever had." 

Richie stroked the beard that he still thought was great, pretending to think. "Mmmmmm... no." 

Mike hit the steering wheel. "Richie!" 

"Mike!" 

"Just listen! In Budapest, three days from now, loading dock 17, 8:30. Think about it." 

Richie wasn't going to pretend that he didn't miss spying. He missed the thrill and the near-misses with death. The constant movement, knowing he was saving the world over and over. He loved everything about it. 

But he fucked up. He killed Eddie. They were partners. 

"No," he finally answered. 

That was what he said, but his fingers were twitching and every instinct in his body was telling him to take the job. 

"This is me." 

Mike stopped the car with a sad look on his face. "See you, Richie." 

Richie got out and stumbled to the door. He knew he had his key, but he couldn't bring himself to unlock it. His feet were planted on the ground. He closed his eyes and groaned. He knew Mike hadn't left yet. And he knew why. 

He stomped his foot and yelled. "Fuck!" 

Turning around, he walked (stumbled) back to the car, where Mike had the window down and was grinning at him, as Richie almost tripped over his own feet and knocked himself out on the concrete. 

"I _fucking_ hate you," he snarled.

"Yeah?" Mike smiled.

"You're the fucking worst." 

"Yeah?" 

"You really- I-" Richie scoffed. "You- Mike, you son of a- fuck you!" 

Mike looked ecstatic. "Yeah?" 

_"Fuck_ you. Fuck you!" 

"See you tomorrow, Richie!" Mike said gleefully as he rolled up the window. 

"If I don't remember this tomorrow, you can't make me do it!" Richie screamed after him as he drove away. After Mike turned the corner, Richie looked at his feet, then up at his apartment, and then at his hands, which were shaking. 

"Fuck. Oh, god, what have I done?" 

And then he really needed to pee. 

\---

It scared the shit out of him when someone poured ice-cold water over him. Again. 

He shot up, spluttering, cursing, and holding his head, which was pounding like a motherfucker. 

"Hello, Richie," came a voice that made Richie fall backward, covering his eyes with his hands. 

"Can I at least have some ibuprofen? Jesus Christ, Stan." 

"You could have ibuprofen," Stan said angrily, chucking a pair of socks at Richie's head, which hit him in the ear, "if you hadn't-" he threw an entire stack of Richie's porn mags on top of him, "become a _fucking-"_ he took one of Richie's shoes and started hitting him repeatedly, "ALCOHOLIC." 

Richie, while trying to get away from Stan's abuse, fell off the bed and hit his head on the floor, which didn't help his headache. 

"Get up, Richie." 

"Gimme a second," he muttered, pushing himself on the floor. It scared the shit out of him when someone hauled him up from behind. "Whoa! Hi, Ben!" he said blindly, his room spinning. 

"Hi, Richie," came Ben's amazing voice. "How've you been?" 

"Oh, I'm fine," he said, trying to get his bearings. 

"Richie, what the actual hell is on your face?" Stan demanded. 

He reached up and was reminded that he had a beard. 

"A be-" 

"If you say that's a beard, I will actually poison you." 

He dropped his hand and looked around for some water. "Well, what am I supposed to say, then?" 

"That it's a rat's pubes, that's what you're supposed to say!" Stan ran his hand through his hair. "Do you want coffee? There is a right answer." 

"Uh-" 

The shit was Richie supposed to say? 

"Uh, yes!" Was that right? "Wait, no. Maybe?" 

"The right answer was picking an answer and _sticking_ _to it_ without sounding like a marble-mouthed dunce."

Richie threw his hands up. "Okay?" 

Stan walked over to him, making Richie stumble into a wall (Stan was scary as shit) and put his hands over his dick (previous experience taught him to cover Little Richie). 

Stan stabbed his finger into Richie's chest. "You're going to fucking Budapest." 

Richie opened his mouth and inhaled, about to say something back, but Stan slammed a piece of paper into his chest, making him start coughing. 

"Your plane ticket. You leave in a day. If you aren't there, I swear to _god,_ I will kill you." 

"Sir, yes, sir," Richie said hoarsely. "Jesus." 

"I want a full mission report the _second_ you get back. Got it?" 

"Uh-huh," Richie groaned, rubbing his chest where Stan had poked him. 

"Now get up and sober up for once in your life." 

"Uh, I don't think I can d-" 

_"You don't think you can do it,"_ Stan mocked. "Boo-hoo. You're gonna. I'm not going to sit back and watch you destroy your liver anymore." 

"...Thanks?" 

"You're damn welcome," Stan scoffed, crossing his arms. "Get your shit together. If you're drunk in Budapest, you're going to get yourself killed." 

Richie walked past him into his tiny, cluttered kitchen and grabbed his almost-empty bottle of ibuprofen. He downed four and chugged a glass of left-out water. When he looked up, he saw Stan leaving. 

"Bye?" he called. Stan turned back.

"There's a bar on 56th street," Stan said. "Mike will be waiting for you there. Say, 'I hear the salty fish from down under is simply to die for,' and you'll find him." 

Richie squeezed his eyes shut. "Wait, 56th street in Budapest?" 

"Yes, numbnuts!" 

"Okay, okay, and ' _I hear the salty fish from down under is simply to die for?'_ Right?"

The door slammed shut in response. Richie ran over to his nightstand and scribbled down the code. 

"I hear... the salty... salty? Yeah, saltly. Fish down... under? Are simply to- no, _is_ simply to... die for? The fuck?" 

It wasn't the weirdest code he'd ever had, but usually, the code had something to do with the mission. And Mike was a master of disguise; Richie would only be able to find him with this code. Which meant he'd be saying this to multiple people, all of them not knowing what the hell he was saying, making him embarrass himself. Because that was how petty Stan was.

Even though his head was pounding, he was pretty sure he was going to throw up, and he had to deal with withdrawal symptoms soon, he was... excited. He was back. He was going to be a spy again. 

He and Eddie were going on a mission- 

Eddie. 

Eddie was dead. 

He barely made it to the toilet before he was throwing up. Heaving his guts out, Richie decided: 

He was going to do this. Eddie would want him to do this. He wouldn't want Richie to be an alcoholic that was living off the government, mourning him forever. He would want Richie to get up and move on with his life. 

So Richie got up. He got dizzy and threw up again, but it was symbolic. 

\---

The plane landed in Barcelona and Richie stepped out into the packed airport, bag in hand. He inhaled. He exhaled. 

His body was buzzing with adrenaline.

His fingers were twitching. 

"I hear the salty fish from down under is simply to die for," he muttered. 

The first stop was the bathroom and then a restaurant. Then he'd go to his hotel, where his supplies would be. He wondered if Bill had made them. Wow, he hadn't thought about Bill in a long time. He kind of missed him. 

Richie walked with a purpose out of the airport. That purpose was to go to and eat some paella. 

It was very good. 

He was dealing with some withdrawal symptoms, a huge headache and the occasional tremor, but he felt better than he had in four years. Paying the bill, he left the restaurant, hailed a cab, and went to his hotel. Richie checked in, went to his room, found a duffle bag on the bed. 

It was from Bill. Richie smiled. 

_Richie!_

_I'm so happy you're coming back to work. I've missed you. In the bag, you'll find a communication watch that is also a laser if you flick your wrist. There's a pair of shoes, brown, not black, sorry, that I think are pretty cool. Click your heels and a knife will come out of the toe. You can really mess up some shins with that. I hope I can see you in the office soon._

_Bill_

Smiling, Richie put down the note. It was time to go. 

The next step was to go to the bar on 56th street and say... the thing. The fish thing. 

\---

Richie walked into the bar, his hands in his suit pocket. He eyed everyone who was in the bar. Only a couple of patrons, a waiter, and a bartender. He walked in and said loudly,

"I hear the salty fish from down under is simply to die for." 

One of the customers gasped, got up, shouted, "How rude!" and slapped him in the face. 

"Gah! The fuck? Jeez!" he exclaimed as she shoved past him and stormed out of the restaurant. He went over to the bar and leaned against it, where the bartender gave him a look saying that he knew exactly what just happened. 

"Looks like you could use a drink, friend," he said with a heavy French accent. 

Forgetting that he was supposed to be sober, Richie walked over and leaned against the pennytop, clearing his throat. He was like, 25% sure that his man was Mike. "Uh, yes, I hear the salty fish from down under is simply to die for." 

The bartender stared at him. "What the hell did you just say to me?" he demanded, outraged. Richie was about to back off, but the bartender rolled his eyes. "Oh, is that one of them _fancy_ drinks? We don't serve those here." 

Richie shook his head, confused. "Fine. Whiskey on the rocks." 

The bartender threw his head back and laughed angrily. "Oh, whiskey _on the rocks._ Very fancy! You're getting whiskey with _ice!_ Yeesh."

Richie walked away, knowing full well that the bartender was glaring at him the whole way to the table he decided to sit at. Right away, there was a waiter. Again, French accent. 

"Hello, sir! Thank you for dining with us this evening," he cheerfully, placing a menu down in front of him. Richie glanced around quickly. There was only one other person in the restaurant and they were wrapped up in looking at the menu. 

"I hear the salty fish from down under is simply to die for," he said, really hoping he wouldn't get slapped again. 

"Let me tell the chef that he must fry more," came Mike's normal voice. Richie threw his hands up in the air. 

"Jeez! The briefing said you wouldn't be difficult to find," he said, exasperated. 

Mike laughed. "Yeah, sometimes I do my job too well. Speaking of a job well done," he said, pulling something out from behind his back, "one whiskey on the rocks." 

Richie reached out to get it. 

"With a special garnish." 

Mike then stuck an entire-ass gun into the glass, which activated every fight-or-flight instinct in Richie's body. 

"Holy shit!" he hissed, quickly grabbing the gun and tucking into his waistband. "Are you insane, man?! We are surrounded by _civilians."_

"One," Mike deadpanned. "One other person. And the bartender, who's not paying any attention. And that woman," he said, pointing to the one other non-employee in the restaurant, "is enjoying herself with our affordable drinks and somber music." 

He cleared his throat. "Excuse me, ma'am?" 

The woman didn't even look up. 

"See?" he said. "She's not paying any attention. She's _so_ drunk."

Richie clenched his jaw and sat stiffly. "Fine. What've you got for me, Homeschool?" 

"Thank you," Mike said, putting back on the French accent. "Now, if you carefully peruse the menu, you'll see what we have to offer you tonight." 

Giving Mike a sidelong look, Richie opened the menu, only to have about a dozen top-secret documents fall out of it and onto the floor. 

"God- shit! Mike! You can't just-" 

"I can't just what?" Mike asked. "It's fine. No one cares. Besides, there are only two copies of those documents in the world. Yours and mine." 

Richie scrambled back into his chair with the papers put hastily and untidily between the menu. "Mike," he said, "I have worked for A.S.S. for years, and I've never worked with someone so careless. Or had as bad of a waiter." 

Mike burst out laughing, which Richie grinned at. 

"I gotta say, Trashmouth. It's great to have you back." 

Richie pointed at him. "You're not getting a tip," he joked. 

"Oh!" Mike exclaimed loudly as if he'd just remembered something, "Your ballistic vest is in the coat check!" 

"I hate you, I hate you, you son of a fucking bitch-" 

"Oh! And Stan left a secret note! _IT'S IN THE SALT SHAKER! Shhhhhhhhh!"_ He continued shushing for a while before yelling, "Okay, everyone out! We're closed!" 

Confused, the other customer left and, giving Mike a strange look, the bartender went into the back room. Mike sat down next to Richie and pulled the menu filled with top-secret documents out of his hands and started going through them. He pulled a map out and put it on the table. 

"These are the docks," he said. "You'll want to go to loading dock three. There's a broken window up here. So enter through there and wait for the DMA and company-" 

"'DMA?'" 

"Deadliest Man Alive," Mike explained. "That's what everyone has been calling this new killer." 

Richie scoffed. "Well, that's really on the fucking nose." 

"Right?" 

"Do you think I can rial him up by saying I fucked his mother, or...?" 

"Beep beep. I don't know. Maybe. Not much is known about him except for his kill count." 

"Hot." 

"You really- okay. Yeah, sure. Hot." 

"Supermegaawesomefoxyhot-" 

"Shut. Up. What does the note from Stan say?" 

"Uh..." 

Richie opened up the salt shaker and pried the not out. It was on a piece of folded up yellow paper. He unfolded it. 

"Welcome back, Agent! Oh, that's nice of him... oh." 

"What?" 

"He says to not fuck it up or he'll kill me himself." 

Mike exhaled, leaning back. "Damn." 

"Smiley face." 

"What?" 

"There's a smiley face after it." 

Mike barked out a laugh. "Of course there is." He and Richie sat in comfortable silence for a moment before Mike asked, "Are you ready?" 

Sighing, he shrugged. "Ready as I'll ever be." 

"Atta boy." 

Richie winced. He hated hearing people say that. Those were his last words to Eddie.

Mike got up. "Okay, I have to go," he said. Richie frowned. 

"Homeschool! Don't leave me here!" 

Mike grinned. "You're not the only agent that needs my help, Richie. I'll see you around." 

And with that, Mike was gone. Richie looked at the now-empty seat and looked away, downing his whiskey. He closed his eyes. He and Eddie had been on multiple missions like this before. Busting an arms deal, meeting up at a bar or something, forming a plan. They would leave, do their jobs, and, depending on how much time they had after that, they would... do some illegal activity. 

He remembered the way Eddie sounded. He remembered the way Eddie felt, tight around him, his hands in his hair, his mouth on his neck. He remembered having Eddie in his hand, inside him, and the way Eddie's eyes would roll back in his head and how angry he would get when Richie teased him. Eddie was something else. He would always bitch about cleaning up after, or when Richie did something incredibly risky that almost got them killed. 

But what he remembered most was waking up to Eddie in his arms, wrapped around him like a koala on a branch. He missed making Eddie breakfast while Eddie read the newspaper and they'd bicker about current events. He missed Eddie kissing him soundly. He missed Eddie's laugh and the way his brown eyes sparkled. 

He looked back at the empty seat. That's where Eddie should be.

But he was dead because of Richie. Because Richie was hungry, ate a banana, and dropped the peel. Eddie had rolled his eyes and demanded that Richie pick it up. Richie at kissed him and said something along the lines of, 'Hey, we're about to blow this whole place up. Who cares?' 

And then, when they were running out. Eddie had slipped on that banana peel and fallen to his death. 

It was Richie's fault he was dead. His eyes stinging and his throat burning, he went behind the abandoned bar and got himself another drink. 

Richie made a decision: he was going to do something that would've made Eddie _so_ fucking angry with him.

\---

_His interrogator punched him in the face. Richie bit back a groan and spit out some blood. He grinned at the henchmen and the boss stalked just out of sight._

_"You're even strong than your reputation suggests, Mr. Tozier," came a questionable Russian accent. "Perhaps a more... serious method of extraction is in order."_

_Richie barked out a laugh. "Do your worst. I'm like a Russian nesting doll," he teased. "You can break me down, but there's four more of me waiting inside."_

_He didn't let it show, but he inwardly winced at his stupid metaphor._

_"Pretty soon, you'll be left with just a tiny little version of me."_

_Why the hell did he continue that?_

_There was a moment of silence. Richie cursed silently. The boss held out his hands, confused, and Richie saw his skin. He was tan. Small hands. Richie could see that he was short. He frowned._

_"I do not understand what that means," came the weird accent, "but I do understand the sound of a man in pain."_

_Richie scoffed._

_"You know," came the voice, walking closer to him, "it would be really, really nice if you just told us about the blueprints."_

_"Fuck off," he moaned. "I have a date."_

_"Mr. Tozier," came the voice again, "you should really take this seriously. How are you so cool and collected when you are staring into the face of death? Where do you get off?"_

_Richie laughed. "Room, shower, maybe the back of a limousine, but I don't think we're there just yet."_

_He heard a familiar laugh from the man. "I think we are."_

_He looked back and saw the man pull a gun. He was about to react, thinking that he was going to die, and heard a gunshot. His heart dropped._

_But he wasn't dead. Someone was undoing his restraints._

_"You're a fucking idiot, Richie," Eddie hissed, breaking out of his shitty Russian accent._

_Richie laughed. "Nice to see you, too, Eds."_

_"Don't call me that," he huffed as Richie stood up. Eddie inspected his face. "You'll probably have a pretty bad black eye," he murmured. "And that cut, you might need stitches..."_

_"Come on, Eddie," Richie whined, grabbing Eddie's ass, making him jump. "I'm fine," he grinned._

_"Not here!" Eddie laughed, trying to shove Richie away. Richie grabbed Eddie's waist and pulled him flush to his body._

_"Come on, babe," he whined playfully._

_"Beep fucking beep, you asshole-"_

_Richie kissed him. Eddie kissed him back before shoving him away._

_"We have to blow this facility."_

_"I know," Richie smiled, completely smitten. "Let's go."_

_\---_

Richie jerked awake. He had dozed off in the cab on his way to a bar close to the docks. It wasn't like he could _ask_ for someone to take him to the docks so he could stop an illegal arms deal. "This is you, yeah?" came the cabby's voice. 

He looked out the window and nodded. "Yeah." He passed the money and got out. 

There was a gun tucked into his pants. 

"Okay," he huffed to himself. "Let's do this." 

And off he (carefully, undetected) ran to the docks. When he entered the warehouse, he saw two dead bodies and two men talking. 

One was tall, lanky. Sergio Santos. The other was... short. He was short. The Deadliest Man? Maybe. They were shaking hands. Riche made his way down the stairs quietly, his gun out. He inhaled and opened his mouth- 

"Freeze! Hands in the air!" 

It scared him, not to mention the two men. They both threw their hands up. Richie looked in awe at the short redhead. She had freckles all over her face and blue eyes. He jumped down the stairs, awkwardly yelling, 

"I- I second that motion!" 

Everyone looked at him. The man he assumed was the Deadliest Man Alive stared at him with wide eyes. "You," he whispered. 

Behind him, Sergio Santos leaned to get a look at him. "Is that... Richie Tozier? Wow! Jesus, man! That is a _mangy_ lady tickler!"

Richie subconsciously raised a hand to his beard. 

"I can't believe this," Sergio continued, thrilled. "The most famous spy in the world, busting _my_ arms deal! Hey, would you mind signing something for my nephew-" 

"We don't have time for this," the Deadliest Man Alive (Richie was just going to call him DMA. He didn't give a shit) said. He grabbed Richie's gun, which he didn't expect, and threw it to the ground. He ran out. The other spy didn't even flinch. Richie scrambled for his gun. Why didn't that girl give a shit that the DMA had escaped? 

"Look," Sergio said, "this is just a job, my anniversary is tonight, those are some baked goods for my wife-" 

"Get out of here," the girl said, not taking her eyes off Richie. Richie narrowed his eyes. 

"Oh, wow! You guys are great, have a good one-" 

Sergio ran out of the building and the two of them walked forward and grabbed the case that the bomb was in. They were both holding half of the handle. 

"Well, this was fun, but I'd better be off," he said. 

The girl laughed. "Funny, Trashmouth." 

Richie frowned. How did she know what his friends called him? 

"I need this," he said seriously. 

"So do I," she smiled. 

"I need to get this to my superiors, or I'm going to look like a fucking idiot." He put his hand on her waist. "Come on, help a guy out..." 

"Oh, honey," she said sweetly, "you already look like an idiot." 

Before Richie could shoot something back, she kneed him in the dick and ran away, taking the case. He groaned, falling to the ground. 

"Jesus Christ," he said tightly. He looked at the card he had taken from her pocket. She was staying in Monte Carlo. He grinned before doubling over in pain again. 

\---

He was told that he had to come to Stan's office as soon as he got back. So that's what he did. Force of habit, but Richie pressed his ear to the door to hear what was going on so he didn't catch Stan at a bad time. 

Through the door, he heard, "Yeah, well, I know you're disappointed with the results, but you just weren't ready for Prime Time. The camera adds ten pounds and he's a _hell_ of a lot younger than you." A pause. "Mmmm. And not to mention you looked like a crook, you know? A dirty old crook?" 

This seemed like a good time. He knocked on the door, ready to be ripped to pieces. 

"Yeah, what- come in." 

Richie opened the door and walked in. Stan looked furious with his feet on his desk and a red phone to his ear. He looked back down and cleared his throat. "Hold on a second, Nixy, I think my takeout just arrived." 

He whirled to Richie, snapped his finger, and pointed at him. "Sit down!" he hissed angrily. He flipped Richie off. "Fuck you! You're fucking dead!" 

Richie frowned and sat down in the chair. Stan turned his attention back to the phone and the conversation he was having. 

"Alright," Stan said cheerfully, "here's something that might cheer you up- uh, I call this one _JFK._ Oh, yea, Boston Red Sox, clam chowda. You like that one? Yeah, I'm pretty good with impressions. Alright, you know what? Next go-around, you're gonna have to convince the American people you're not a crook. A- a crook, that is. Uh-huh. Alright. Bye-bye, Vice President Nixon."

He carefully put the phone back in the receiver and looked at Richie. "What the fuck did my note say?" he demanded. 

"What a nice welcome back this is gonna be," Richie said sarcastically. 

"It did _not_ say that. I believe it said something like, "Welcome back, agent. Don't fuck it up, or I'll kill you myself-"

"Sure, but-" 

"-smiley face," he finished. 

"The briefing said-" Richie tried, but Stan was on a roll. 

"Oh, God!" he yelled, standing up. "It astonishes me, Richie, your complete lack of attention to detail!" 

Richie was about to disagree, but that was kind of true.

"Your job was _simple,"_ he continued, "your directive was _clear,_ so how, in the _flippity flappity FUCK-_ did a dangerous weapon of _mass destruction_ end up in the hands of a _Russian spy-_ while we are in the middle of a cold war _with Russia,_ you _fucking_ dum-dum?" 

"I know, Bird Boy! But I managed to get-" 

"What? What did you _manage to get?"_ Stan demanded. 

"I got this," he said happily, pulling a card out of his pocket. She's in Monte Carlo, staying at Richman's Casino." 

Stan walked slowly over to him, making Richie squirm in his seat. He put his hands on his knees and got in Richie's face. "Then _what,"_ he hissed, "are you still doing in my office?" 

Richie made to get up, but was shoved down by Stan. "Do you want coffee?" 

He remembered. "Yes," he answered firmly. Stan nodded. 

"Ben, we'll take our mid-morning coffee, please." 

Ben came around the corner and grabbed Stan by the waist and picked him up. 

"Richie!" he yelled. "Richie, help! This man is hurting me! This is not a drill!" 

Richie jumped up, grabbed a gun that was sitting on the desk, and tried, he tried so hard to react other than that because Stan was in danger, but he couldn't. Ben set Stan down. 

"That was a test," Stan said calmly, "and you failed. God, Richie. You really let yourself go during your _early retirement."_

"You mean my grieving period?" Richie shot back, throwing the gun back on the table, his face burning with shame and embarrassment. 

"Oh, we all grieved!" Stan said as Ben came back in with coffee. "I remember when I got the call that Eddie died and you lived, I screamed into Ben's neck for fifteen seconds, locked it up, and moved on!"

Richie snapped. "He wasn't your-" 

"My _what?"_ Stan hissed. "I'm well a-fucking-ware that you two were knockin' dicks. It's _no fucking surprise to anyone._ I remember when you two fucked on Bower's desk and I didn't tell him because he's a piece of shit."

Richie choked on his coffee. "You- you-" 

"Yes," Stan deadpanned. "But you... heh, you drank yourself to rock bottom and... you grew that... that..." He was getting progressively angrier. "That- that fucking-!" 

He came over to Richie and grabbed his beard. 

"A beard?!" Richie provided. 

"Yes!" Stan yelled. "A _fucking beard!"_

He took a breath and went back to his side of the desk, leaving Richie with his hands protectively over his beard. Stan sat down. 

"Okay. Our line of work has gotten infinitely more dangerous in your absence. You're going to have to work that flabby body-" 

"Flabby?" Richie repeated. "That's not what your mother said-" 

"Richie," Stan said dangerously, "if you finish that sentence, I will kill you." 

Richie nodded. "Sounds good, continue." 

"Anyway, you're going to have to work that _flabby body_ harder than ever if you want to stay alive. First things first, we're going to get you sobered up. Bourbon?" 

Ben took Richie's coffee out of his hand and replaced it with a flask. Richie frowned. 

"...thanks." 

He smelled it. Smelled good. As Stan started speaking, Richie took a sip. 

"Uhg, Richie. I know I've been being a bitch lately. I've got a lot on my plate. As you know, the World Piece Gala in Geneva this week. It's the _coming-out party_ of the New Democratic Republic of Old Socialist Prussian Slovakia. Oh, an American alliance with them would really just _fuck_ the Russians. That is poisoned." 

Richie choked on the bourbon. 

"Anyway," Stan continued easily, "the new prince of the New Democratic of Old- oh, fuck it. He's an inexperienced, inbred, dumbo fucking idiot, and _all_ the great leaders feel the same way." He paused as Richie started to choke. "That doesn't leave this room." 

He started checking the pockets of his suit, looking for the antidote, because Stan had done something similar before. 

"The Russian dignitary and I will be _bowing_ at this fickle fuck's feet until he decides on a 'special relationship,' and well, thanks to your _colossal_ fuck-up, the Russians have the upper hand." He held up the antidote just out of Richie's reach. "Repeat back to me everything I just said."

Richie couldn't breathe. He coughed out, "Ah! Uh, uh, uh, the, er, Prussians are morons, we-" he started coughing violently, "we need them, Russia wants them, too, uh, fickle feet, big fuckin' gala-" 

Stan handed him the antidote. He unscrewed the cap and downed it before coughing and spluttering. "You poisoned me!" he yelled. 

"Oh, get over it," Stan said angrily. "I've been poisoning myself a little bit every day since 1939. Get out of my fucking office." 

Richie got up quickly and stumbled out of the office. Right away, he ran into Bill. Bill's eyes lit up and he was pulled into a tight hug. The problem was he still couldn't breathe all that well. He pushed Bill away and fell into an empty chair. 

"Are you o-o-okay?" Bill asked. 

Richie nodded. "Stan fuckin'-" he coughed, "poisoned me." 

Bill nodded. "Y-yeah, that's h-how he likes d-doing it n-now. Do you n-n-need some w-water?" 

"Yes, please," Richie coughed. Bill jogged out of his sight and came back with a mug of water. Richie downed it. He felt better right away.

"Jesus Christ," he gasped. "Hey, Big Bill!" 

He got up and hugged Bill. 

"How've y-you been?" Bill asked, worried. "I kn-know a-after..." 

Closing his eyes, Richie nodded. "Yeah. Uh, it's hard. But I'm back because someone's gotta do it." 

"Y-you got bored, d-d-didn't you?" 

Richie put his arm around Bill and started steering them back to Bill's department. "Well, that's neither here nor there. One thing that I didn't get bored of was fucking your mother-" 

"You h-haven't ch-changed," Bill mused. 

"Thank god for that," Richie yelled. "Can you imagine a world without Richie Tozier?" 

"I c-can," Bill grinned. "It's n-not as fun, though." 

"Oh, Bill," Richie cooed, "if I wasn't with your mom, I would be all over you!" 

"Why am I your new target?" Bill laughed. It sounded forced. They both knew Eddie was always Richie's target before... uh. The fall. "Wh-why not Stan?" 

"I tried that," Richie said nonchalantly, brushing right past the almost-Eddie conversation. They hadn't had one yet. Richie never wanted to, either. "He did _not_ like that. He threatened to kill me." 

Bill shrugged. "That m-makes sense." 

They entered the lab. "So, what've you been working on?" Richie asked. A woman was walking with a tray of glasses. Richie grabbed one. "Yeah, you guys get it! A drink to toast my return." 

He drank it as Bill tried to grab his arms and the woman burst out crying. It did _not_ taste good. 

"R-R-Richie!" Bill scolded. "Those were r-rare stem cells used for Jaz's t-t-tissue r-regeneration research! It's t-taken her y-y-y-years to perfect her f-formula!" 

Richie quickly put down the glass and apologized profusely. "It's okay," Jaz said, wiping her eyes. "Just- just watch out for blood in your poop. You could die." 

She walked away, sniffling, leaving Richie staring after her, wondering if he was going to die. Well, at least he'd be with Eddie if the afterlife was real. Bill led Richie over to his workspace. 

"Okay, h-here's what I'm w-w-working on." 

Richie leaned over and looked at the random objects on Bill's desk. "Y-you saw th-the l-l-laser watch a-already," he said, gently putting the watch aside. "Th-this is a ring that sh-shoots a p-poison d-d-dart wh-when y-y-you-" 

Richie rubbed Bill's back because he could tell that Bill was getting overwhelmed. "Take a breath, big guy." 

He did. "Th-thanks, Rich. Uh, R-Richie." 

He didn't think that it showed, but his whole body went cold when Bill called him that. Ever since Eddie died, he couldn't stand being called... that. That's what Eddie always called him. At one point, it was so bad that he considered changing his name. Oh, Bill was talking. 

"We h-have rocket sh-shoes, a l-lie detector-" 

Richie looked to the left, where people were walking down with... random objects. 

"What's that cane?" he asked. 

"It's a-actually a g-gun." 

Richie frowned. "And that umbrella?" 

"As a m-matter of f-fact," Bill said proudly, "a g-gun." 

The objects that were being walked past him were making him second guess his sanity. "Candlestick?" 

"It's a g-gun." 

"Coffee cup?" he asked meekly.

"I-it's a g-gun." 

"Apple," he said, just to keep the trend going. There was no _way_ that an apple was-

"G-gun.

"Are you serious? Is that paper clip a gun, too?" he demanded. Bill smiled modestly. 

"Y-yeah. Pretty c-cool, r-right?" 

Someone walked up with a razor and shaking cream. Richie grinned. 

"Let me guess," he teased, "it's a gun." 

"N-no," Bill said seriously. "S-s-s-sit down." 

Richie's hand flew over his beard. _"No,"_ he gasped.

"Yes. You look h-homeless. S-sit down." 

"No! I love my beard!" 

Bill called over his shoulder. "C-C-Cairo! Inigo! L-Laura! H-hold him down!" 

Three more people walked up, one of them being Richie's bartender. 

"Laura?" he asked in awe as he was being shoved into a chair. She grinned. 

"Hey, Richie." 

"You were working here the whole time?" 

"Yeah, man," she laughed. "You think we weren't keeping tabs on you this whole time?" 

"I-" he was lost for words. He gulped as shaving cream was smeared on his face. "Are we still on for drunk Uno?" is what he came up with. 

"'Course, babe." 

An hour later, he was grumpily sitting in a chair, clean-shaven. Stan walked out of his office and paused for a moment to look at him. 

"Well," he said loudly, "thank god." 

And then he walked away. Richie stuck out his tongue at Stan's back. 

"Do that again, Tozier, and I'll cut it out," Stan called, having seemingly no way to see him. Richie put his tongue back in his mouth. Bill patted his shoulder. 

"Where a-are y-you going next?" 

Richie smiled. "Richman's Casino, Monte Carlo." 

"Mm. W-win me m-money." He got a fiver out of his pocket and slapped it into Richie's waiting palm. "T-turn this i-into f-five hundred. I'll b-be in a h-hotel near y-you, as u-usual." 

Richie stood up, pocketing the money. "You're the boss, Big Bill." 

\---

Richie walked into Richman's Casino wearing a white suit jacket, white shirt, black bowtie, and black pants. He looked around for the woman. The redhead. After walking around for a while, he spotted her. She was sitting at the high roller's table. He walked over and motioned to the seat next to her. 

"Is this spot taken?" 

She smiled up at him. Short red hair and blue eyes, she was wearing a silk purple dress that left a little too much to the imagination. 

"Not at all," she responded smoothly, a hint of a Russian accent in her voice. 

Richie grinned. "Great." 

He watched her as she pulled a cigarette out of her bra. He leaned over with a light in hand. 

"Thank you," she said softly. 

The dealer cleared his throat. "Do you mind?" They both looked up and it took all that Richie had to not laugh. It was Mike. "This is a non-smoking table. And I have... lung cancer."

Eyes wide, the woman tucked the cigarette back into her bra and Richie quickly put the lighter away. He knew that Mike was lying, but goddamn. He was really pulling out the big guns. 

"Uh," said the woman, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, "let's have a drink." 

Richie waved over a waitress. She smiled. 

"What can I get you guys?" 

"Vodka martini," the woman said confidently. "Bone dry." 

"I'll take the same. Actually, no. I'll have a White Russian." 

He sent her a smile and she rolled her eyes, grinning. When he was sure that she wasn't paying attention, he leaned over to the waitress and said quietly, "Hold the vodka, please. Thank you so much. I'm off it."

"Excellent choice. One vodka martini, bone dry," and then, loudly, "and one GLASS OF CREAM, coming up." 

She walked away, leaving Richie about to turn back to the woman and bring the charm when there was suddenly someone yelling in his ear. 

"HOLD YOUR HORSES," he called the waitress with a heavy Southern accent. "Make sure you add a nice, ice-cold _Budweiser_ to that order, sugar-shitter!" 

The waitress nodded, confused, and Richie was also confused, and the woman, lo and behold, too, was confused. Chuckling, the man put one arm around Richie and one arm around the girl. 

"Well, pardon the interruption, but when I see a lone wolf like yourself over here at the high roller table-" He was talking to _Richie._ What the hell? "-I figure he's in dire need of a wingman." 

"I- I'm hardly alone, the lady and I were just about to-" 

"OH, AND AN AMERICAN TO BOOT! Let me introduce myself. My name's Richard Big, but my friends call me Dick." 

He, _Dick,_ leaned over and tipped his honest-to-god cowboy hat to the woman, who looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh. 

Giggling like a madman, Dick grabbed a stool and set it _right between Richie and the woman._ The waitress came back with their drinks quickly and handed them off. Richie leaned over Dick and looked at the woman, toasting. 

"Vashee Nastrovia-" 

"Oh, _god_ no!" Dick yelled. "No, no, NO! Cut out that Commie bullshit right now! I got a good red, white, and blue for ya:" He stood up and held his drink in the air. "To honor. Hittin' on her, gettin' on her, stayin' on her, and if you can't cum in 'er, cum on 'er, God bless America." 

And with that, he chugged the beer at a speed of which Richie had never _seen._ And he was a blackout drunk for almost four years straight. He took a sip of his White Russian, which was, in reality, an actual glass of cream, said, "Cheers," in the voice of a defeated man. 

"Nastrovia," the woman responded, her voice shaking with laughter. This caused Richie to snort into his cream and fight laughter as the game started. 

"The big blind is to you, sir," Mike said, but he didn't know if he was talking to _Dick_ or _Richie._ "Ladies and gentlemen, the game is called blackjack. I suggest," Mike said slowly, "you _hit."_

"Aight," Richie shrugged. "Hit." 

A gun was tossed at him across the table. 

"Jesus Christ!" he hissed, shoving the gun into the waistband of his pants, "stay, stay!" 

He looked over at Dick and the woman, but they didn't look like they had noticed anything. Dick was distracting them both by being himself. 

"Oh, okay," said Mike nonchalantly, like he didn't just almost out Richie to an entire casino. "Sir?" 

Dick looked at his cards and started giggling. "Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, yeah, I'd better stay." 

_What a buildup for such a dumb sentence,_ Richie thought to himself, rolling his eyes. 

"Ma'am?" 

Richie looked over as the woman smiled. She had just opened her mouth to say something when Dick said something _incredibly_ sexist. 

"Oh, now, if you're havin' any trouble bettin', there ain't no shame in having a _man_ help you out a lil bit, Miss. Gingerpuss." 

He reached over and put his hand on the woman's waist as he was saying it. The redhead smiled. 

"I'm quite confident in my skills," she said smoothly, looking over at him. "I'm not sure if the same could said for you, Mr. Needle Dick." 

Dick laughed loudly and obnoxiously. "OUCH! THAT ONE BURNED!" He leaned over and hit Richie's arm. Richie was about to hit him back. "Oh, boy! This kitty's got claws! I bet you back her into a corner and you get scratched. Boy, you ain't gettin' _anywhere_ near her tonight!" He put his arm around Richie. Richie was going to throttle him in his sleep. "Brothers before others, you know what I'm saying?" 

"How could I not?" came Riche's reply through clenched teeth. "You're yelling it into my ear." 

"Hit." 

He turned his attention back to the woman as Mike turned over a card. His eyes never left her as she said, 

"Hit. Hit. Hit. Stay. 21." 

Shook, Dick tipped his hat to her. "Very nice." 

"Okay," Mike said, taken aback. "Dealer. Two, and... two make 22! Dealer bust. Congratulations to the madam." 

_This was his chance._

"Well, _Dick,_ it's been... great, but the woman and I would like a little alone time-" 

"Ho, ho, ho, HELL no," Dick chortled. "Boy, you are heatin' up. I wouldn't be a very smart man if I didn't ride your coattails all the way to the bank tonight, which reminds me. I'll get the next round. On _your tab!"_

While he cackled, Richie and the woman made eye contact and she shrugged, still trying very hard not to laugh. He covered his mouth with his hand for a moment to compose himself. Dick left and in an attempt to get away, the woman and Richie went to a different table without even speaking bout it. 

He held out his arm and she took it. As they sat down, right next to each other, Richie was shoved out of his seat by Dick, who sat down next to the woman in his place. Richie looked up at the sky. 

"I am not going to harm a civilian," he gritted out to no one in particular. He took the only remaining seat, which was next to Dick, who was between him and his target. 

"Sorry," Dick said loudly, "can't have you two getting too cozy!" 

"The game is roulette," said Mike, who had suddenly switched tables to be with them. 

Dick clapped Richie's lower back as he sat down, which made Richie go cold as Dick's hand landed on his gun. 

"My, my, my, what's this I detect nestled snugly above your sacrum?" 

Richie cleared his throat loudly. "Uh, spin!" 

Dick started tearing up. He and the woman looked at him strangely. "Boy," he said, sniffing, "it makes me so proud to know that I am standin' next to a second-amendment-loving patriot as yourself." 

Dick turned away, blowing his nose into his jacket as Mike asked, "Red or black?" 

"And so far from home!" Dick wailed. 

"Red!" he said loudly, trying to be heard over Dick's emotional republican speech. 

"HEY, Y'ALL!" 

It blasted Richie's fucking ear out. He could barely hear Mike ask, "Are all bets in?" 

"THIS BOY'S PACKIN' HEAT!"

"Yes, we're all in!" 

"All in, great," Mike said, rolling the ball. "Ooh, fifteen black, the mister is a big fat loser!" 

Richie flipped him off and Dick screamed like a wounded fucking cat. 

"WHOA, WHOA, WHOA! NEVER, IN MY WILDEST NIGHTMARES DID I FIGURE THAT I WOULD BE ASSOCIATED WITH A MAN WHO COULDN'T KEEP HIS COOL UNDER PRESSURE, MISTER-" He paused and pointed a finger at Richie. In a voice that made it sound like Richie had done many unspeakable crimes, which he had, but Dick didn't know that, said, "I don't seem to have caught your name." 

"Tozier," the woman said, her eyes sparkling, "his name is Richie Tozier." 

"Well, Mr. _Richie Tozier,_ if that is your real name, you need to learn to respect the people around you! Frankly, I don't feel safe. How dare you bring your BAGGAGE into this palace of joyous frivolity, flowing libations, and friendship? Or so I THOUGHT. BUT YOU ARE NOT MY FRIEND! NAY! You are friend of no man here! And so I find myself in the unfortunate position of having to say good evening to the lady, and to you, sir, you burn in the fiery pits of Lucifer's Hell, good NIGHT!" 

He stormed away. Richie was speechless. What the hell could he even say to that? Slowly, he looked over at the woman and the woman looked over at him. When their eyes met, they burst out laughing. 

"What the fuck was that?" he wheezed. "Do you know him?" 

"No!" the woman cackled. "No!" 

He cleared his throat. "Should we go upstairs and discuss it further?" 

Her eyes darkened. "I thought you'd never ask, Trashmouth." 

Hands shaking, he held out his arm to her. As they walked to the elevator, talking about the man they just met, someone stopped them. 

"Excuse me, sir, your bill comes to 25,000 francs." 

Richie stopped cold. "Wh- how?" he spluttered. 

"Those imported Bubweisers you ordered were 9,000 francs a piece."

"I- Jesus fucking Christ. Can I write you a check?" 

The employee shrugged. "Sure, money's money." 

As he turned around to write a check, he heard the following interaction between the employee and the woman: 

Employee: "Hi." 

Woman: "Hello." 

He shoved the check into the employee's hand and they got into the elevator together. 

"You can call me Bev," said... Bev. 

"...Okay. You can call me... Dick." 

Bev started laughing again. "God, who the hell does he think he is?" 

"I-" Richie choked on his own spit. "I don't know. But seriously, I need the bomb." 

Bev shrugged. "You can have it. You're going to have to take it by force, though." 

He gave her a sidelong look. "You're talking about real fighting, right?" 

She shrugged. "I'm fine with either." 

"Looking to punch someone in the face?" 

Bev grinned. "I dunno, kneeing you in the dick seemed to do the trick last time." 

"Bev," he whined, "that was so mean!" 

"Hey, I had a job." 

"Felt that." 

"Seriously, Sergio Santos- how- how does he do what he does? He's not qualified for it at all." 

"Honestly!" Richie said loudly. "He's a high-profile arms dealer and he acts like a child!" 

"Kinda like you," Bev grinned. 

Richie put his hand dramatically over his heart. "Excuse you, I'll have you know that I am the most mature human being _ever."_

Bev threw her head back and laughed, clear as a bell, before pulling the cigarette out of her bra again. "Still got that lighter?" 

Richie pulled his out and lit it for her. "Those things'll kill you," he said quietly. 

"I'm counting on it," she replied, taking a big hit. 

Richie didn't say anything back. Eddie hated the smell of smoke. He said it brought back his asthma from when he was a kid. Richie would always smoke to annoy him, to have Eddie's attention on him, to hear him bitch about how he tasted when they kissed. After Eddie died, he stopped smoking. He couldn't take it. Smelling the smoke form Bev made him want to cry or punch something or throw himself off the roof of a building. 

_Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, I'm so sorry, Eddie._

The doors binged open and the two of them stepped out. 

"How do you feel about Dick having the same name as you?" Bev asked. 

"I'm just happy he didn't go by Richie," he scoffed. 

Bev unlocked her door and paused. She looked back at him. "I'm sorry, Richie." 

He frowned. "For what?" 

She opened the door and he was tased right away. The last thing he saw before he passed out was a pair of familiar brown dress shoes. 

\---

Groaning, he opened his eyes. He was tied to a chair. He tested the restraints and found there no easy way to get out. There was a light shining in his face. His eyes adjusted and he saw a man standing in front of him. 

"Vell, vell, vell," he said in a German accent. "'Agent' 'Richie' 'Tozier.'" 

Richie frowned. Looking around, his vision still a little blurry, he saw the DMA leaning against a wall, arms crossed, staring pointedly at the floor. He looked like he was going to cry. 

"Von Nazi?" Richie asked tiredly. 

"Shut up!" Von Nazi yelled. "I have heard _so_ much about you, and now we finally meet face to face." 

"Face, huh?" Richie grinned. "Like the one your uncle had before he blew it off?" 

"Enough!" Von Nazi huffed. Richie looked over his shoulder and saw Bev standing guilty behind him, holding the bomb. "I'm in charge here, Tozier." 

Richie frowned. Von Nazi was making it clear he had no idea what the hell he was doing. 

"You're insane," he shot back. He looked at Bev. "Are you seriously working for this dumbass?" 

Bev opened her mouth to speak, but the DMA spoke. 

"Don't get involved, Bev," he said softly. 

The man's voice shook Richie to his core. He didn't know why. It was soft and sad, which he didn't _ever_ expect to hear from the Deadliest Man Alive. 

"The chips are stacked in my favor!" Von Nazi said loudly, annoyed that the attention in the room wasn't on him. "Get it?" he asked, turning to Richie. "Because you started out the night with a lot of chips, and then you lost them. But now, I have them all, metaphorically." 

Richie stared at him. 

This man was fuckin' stupid. 

"Von Nazi, man," Richie sighed, "it's not gonna work. I don't know what it is you're planning, exactly, but if you could just _stop,_ that'd be _great."_

The DMA stifled a giggle. 

"The Nazis are like, the worst villains in the world. Besides the KKK." 

"Villians!" Von Nazi spat. "Tozier, look at the state of Germany after two World Wars. We are divided in _half._ Forced to pay reparations! _We're_ the ones being punished. The _Russians-"_ He pointed at Bev, "-are the villains. And you _Americans_ are even worse! Yes! The Nazis, well... we're not so bad." 

Richie burst out laughing. Behind him, he heard Bev fighting back laughter. The DMA was covering his mouth with his hand, his brown eyes sparkling. 

"I am rebuilding the Nazi empire!" Von Nazi announced. "In a new nation!" 

"Dude," Richie sighed, "there is _no_ country _dumb_ enough to let you take them over." 

Von Nazi grinned at him. "Oh?" 

"What country, man?" 

Von Nazi's grin turned into a sneer. "Perhaps your dear director Stanley Uris can answer that." 

He pulled a device out of his coat and pressed a button. In Stan's voice, it said, _"Anyway, the new prince of the New Democratic of Old- oh, fuck it. He's an inexperienced, inbred, dumbo fucking idiot, and all the great leaders feel the same way. That doesn't leave this room."_

Hold on. 

That _was_ Stan's voice. 

"Wait, how the _fuck_ did you get that?" he demanded. 

Von Nazi shimmied his shoulders. "A little birdy told me." 

The Deadliest Man Alive walked up to Richie. "That 'little birdy' being the most advanced network of information surveillance that we've been-" 

"BORING," Richie yelled. The DMA held out a hand. 

"Asshole, you fucking asked!"

"Well, I didn't want an entire rundown-" 

"You fucking asked!" 

"Not for you to say big words to try and sound smart!" 

"I- it's not my fault if you can't understand the English language!" 

"Maybe it is! You don't know that!" 

"Richie, what the fuck-" 

"Your _mom-"_

"WHAT THE FUCK DOES MY MOTHER HAVE TO DO WITH THIS-" 

"She just wants me to say hi. At least, I think that's what she said, I was fuckin' her _real_ good-"

"Still? Seriously?" 

"I-" 

"NOW THAT I AM PRIVY TO ALL THE LITTLE SECRETS WORLD LEADERS SAY BEHIND EACH OTHER'S BACKS," Von Nazi yelled, "I plan to use it to my advantage. At the World Peace Gala in Geneva!" 

_Oh._

It all fell into place. They were going to crash the gala. 

"Tomorrow night, the Deadliest Man will kidnap the idiot prince and hold him ransom. With, of course, the threat of blowing up their capital with the bomb stolen from our dear Beverly." 

"Oh my god," Bev said quietly. 

"AND! When none of the great powers come to his aid, I will sweep in and offer them a helping hand. It is then..." He rubbed his hands together. "That I- _I_ will rise as the new Fuhrer! And even if we don't blow up the capital, they're going to build a new one. With a castle." 

"A fucking castle?" 

"YES! A CASTLE! On a special plot of land picked out by the Deadliest Man himself!" 

Richie turned to Bev. "Seriously?" 

"Von Nazi, you _piece of shit-"_

"Whoa, Beverly, calm down." 

"What about me?" she demanded. "You promised after this I'd be free-" 

"Oh, hush!" Von Nazi shouted. "It's your fault for believing me." 

"Oh, so you played her, too?" 

Von Nazi scowled at him. "Mr. Deadliest Man," he huffed. "Take care of Mr. Tozier." 

Richie hummed. "Wow. Jarring." 

The DMA had a sad smile on his face. Von Nazi angrily stomped out of the room, dragging Bev with him, who shot him a Look. The door shut heavily and Richie was alone with the Deadliest Man. 

Glaring at the DMA as he pulled up a chair and sat in front of him, Richie prepared himself for torture. 

"So, Tozier," the DMA said shakily, "how are you?" 

Richie blinked, taken aback. "I'm sorry?" 

The DMA shrugged. "How are you?" 

"What are you doing?" 

"Talking." 

"Why?" 

"Why not?" 

"Because you're supposed to be killing me, dumbass." 

The DMA clenched his jaw and rolled his eyes. "Anyway, it's been years since you've been out on the field. What happened?" 

Richie tensed up. "Why the hell should I tell you?" 

The DMA smiled, the same sad, regretful smile as before. "Was it because of Eddie?" 

Something inside him snapped. 

"Don't you _DARE_ say his name!" Richie bellowed. 

"I'll take that as a yes, then." 

This was sick. This, by far, and even though they had just started, this was the worst thing that anyone had done to him while trying to break him. 

"I'm sure he's forgiven you," the DMA said softly. 

Richie's eyes were wide. 

He- this was genuine fear. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" he whispered, his eyes stinging. "What the _fuck_ are you doing?" 

"We're just talking-" 

The DMA suddenly keeled over, groaning in pain. He was twitching like he was being electrocuted. Richie had never been more confused in his life. the DMA sat there for about thirty seconds, twitching. He seemed to be desperately scratching at his neck. Richie swallowed. 

"Uh... you okay?" 

Shakily, the DMA sat up. "Yeah," he said breathlessly. He was pale. Richie noticed something: skin on his neck was peeling. Not like dry skin, but... a mask. The DMA was wearing a _mask._

"I- you're-" 

The DMA shook his head, telling Richie to not say anything about it. 

_Hi,_ he wanted to say, _what the fuck is going on?_

"Who are you? You showed up, what, two years ago? Where did you come from, you sewer-dwelling creep?" 

"The States." 

"Obviously. You've got the accent," he spat. "What the hell happened to you that you decided to become a fucking serial killer?" 

The DMA muttered something under his breath. 

"What was that?" Richie sneered, thinking that he had gotten under his skin. 

"It wasn't a choice," he said, still so quietly that Richie could barely hear him. "It wasn't a choice, Richie." 

Once again, he yelped in pain and curled into a ball, twitching spastically. He started rolling up his sleeve and pointed at a small scar. 

"People can hear things," he said weakly. "The security system I was talking about, it'll be everywhere. It _already is."_ He looked at Richie like he was trying to tell him something. "There's nothing you can do to stop it." 

He was blinking strangely. 

_... .-...-./ --._

Wait. That was morse code. 

S... A... V... E... M... E.

"I've got something stuck in my shoe, sorry." 

But the DMA wasn't leaning down to take off his shoe. He was staring at Richie with wide, intense eyes. His face was unfamiliar. But those eyes... 

_Oh._

Someone was following him. This... this was a code that he and Eddie had made up. Swallowing, his anxiety growing, he said, 

"This is one funky town, huh?" 

The DMA looked relieved. "In a sense, yeah." 

Richie nodded slowly. The DMA was being followed. In a sense, there was a gun to his head. He said he didn't have a choice. He was being forced to do this. 

A voice in the back of his head was screaming, _EDDIE! EDDIE! EDDIE! IT'S EDDIE!_

It made Richie feel sick. This man couldn't be Eddie. Richie had watched him fall to his death. But could he have survived? And how did the DMA know about their code? Unless it was Eddie. What could he ask that only _Eddie_ knew? And it seemed like someone was listening to what they were saying. There was a scar on his arm. Was that how he was being electrocuted? Something that was put inside of him? 

"How do you feel about bananas?" 

His nails bit into his palms as the DMA said carefully. "I slipped on one, one time. Don't like them much anymore." 

Okay, well, maybe that was a different time. That was a bad question. 

"How's your mom? Is she still begging for my-" 

"Beep beep." 

His heart dropped. He couldn't breathe. He tapped his fingers on the arms of the chair he was tied to. 

.-.. ...

"Don't call me that." 

Like was scripted. He said it like it was an impulse. Like it was planned. Richie was tearing up. 

"Oh my god." 

"IF YOU WON'T KILL HIM, I WILL!" Von Nazi yelled, barging into the room with a gun pointed at Richie. The DMA stood up to try and protect him, but Bev hit Von Nazi in the head with a board and knocked him out old. Before either the DMA or Richie could react, Bev shot the DMA with a tranquilizer dart. 

"What are you doing?" Richie demanded as she ran over to him and cut him free. 

"Saving you! Come on!" 

He grabbed the knife from her and started cutting his jacket. 

"Richie! The hell are you doing, we have to go!" 

"One second!" he yelled as people started yelling.

_"We don't have a second!"_

"Hold _on!"_

He located the scar on the DMA's arm and started cutting into him. It started bleeding right away. 

_"Richie!"_

"I'm sorry!" 

He found it quickly: a metal piece embedded in his arm. He pulled it out. Whoever was controlling him _had_ been electrocuting him. He tied his sleeve tightly around the DMA's arm and where he had cut. He reached up to where his mask was peeling and pulled it off. 

The blond hair was hiding brown. White skin was hiding tanned. A clear complexion was hiding freckles. The Deadliest Man Alive was hiding _Eddie._

 _"Richie!_ Leave him!" 

_"NO!"_

He didn't really know what happened next. He grabbed an unconscious Eddie and he and Bev ran out of the hotel. He did remember the awkward elevator ride down, though. Their excuse was that Eddie was drunk. Bev helped him carry Eddie. She was looking around frantically. 

"Hold onto him!" 

She ran away from him. He tried calling after her, adjusting Eddie's arm over his shoulder. A second later, the fire alarm blared and chaos reigned. They ran with the rest of the civilians out of the hotel, someone had a gun, they shot Richie in the side, but they had already contacted Bill, who was close by, and he was on his way. Mike somehow found them. 

"Is that Eddie?!" he yelled. "Oh my god! You- you're bleeding!"

The white-hot pain in his side was making him stumble over every step he took. 

"He got shot!" Bev yelled. "Take him!" 

She pushed Eddie onto Mike and helped Richie stay upright. His world was spinning. He was blacking out. 

"ISN'T THERE SUPPOSED TO BE A GETAWAY CAR?!" Bev screamed as the fire department pulled up right next to them. 

Okay. 

Yeah. 

Richie was blacking out. 

\---

He woke up to the sun shining through thin white curtains. He squinted and rolled over, only to be met with deep, throbbing pain in his side. 

_"Fuck,"_ he grunted. 

He looked down and found himself shirtless, wrapped up in gauze. There was an IV in his arm, feeding him something out of a pouch. Blearily, he looked to his brighter. There was another twin bed on the other wall with a person under the covers. They were handcuffed to the frame. Someone opened the door, which scared the shit out of Richie. He tried to get up and fight, but he was hit by another wave of nauseating pain. 

"Richie!" came a scolding voice. "Lay back down right now!" 

"Mom?" 

"Yes! Now lay down, I'll get you more morphine." 

"Mom?" 

She petered out of the room and came back with another bag. She hooked it up to him quickly as Bev walked in. 

"Morning, sunshine." 

"What the hell happened?" 

God, he was so out of it. Who was the person in the bed across from him? Was he in Guadalupe? Or was he dead? 

"You passed out, Bill got Stan to get us a private jet, we flew to Guadalupe, where we are now, Bill and Mike are back at A.S.S., so it's me, you, your mom, and Eddie." 

Richie jolted up. "Eddie?" he demanded before falling backward, groaning. 

His mother kissed his forehead. "Give it a second, Richard. The morphine will kick in in a second." 

"Where's Eddie?" he panted. 

Bev pointed to the other bed. "He woke up a few hours ago, but I knocked him out again." 

"Why?" Richie demanded. "Help me up!" 

"Because he's the Deadliest Man Alive!" Bev defended, grabbing his arm. "Sit down!" 

"No!" 

He was the closest to Eddie he'd been in four years. He didn't care if Eddie was unconscious, he was right there, ten feet away, _breathing, alive, healthy-_ Richie had to get to him. The pain dulled until it was a throb, which meant the morphine was doing its work. He stumbled across the room, his mother and Bev protesting, and caught himself on the edge of Eddie's bed. 

He pulled the covers back and saw Eddie's peaceful, sleeping, beautiful face. 

Richie choked on a sob as he brushed Eddie's curls off his forehead. His hair was longer than Richie had ever seen. 

There were hands on his shoulders and back, his mother and Bev begging him to lay back down. 

"Uncuff him," he croaked. 

"What?" 

"Richie, why-" 

"Uncuff him." 

His voice was quiet and deadly serious. His mother shuffled away and got the key. She handed it to Richie, who unlocked Eddie. His wrist was inflamed with a bluish-black ring that looked a little infected. 

"He's allergic to nickel," Richie heard himself saying. "Why did you cuff him? He- he's allergic to nickel-" 

His knees buckled and he collapsed. His mother and Bev caught him. They dragged him back to his bed, which was too far away from Eddie. He tried to get back up again. 

"Okay, okay, Richie, sweetie, we'll move your bed closer. How's that?" 

He nodded numbly as the two of them moved the bed with him still on it. He grabbed Eddie's hand when he got close enough and stared at it, amazed that he was touching Eddie. _Eddie._

His mother rubbed his back. "I thought Eddie was gone," she said softly. 

Richie sobbed. "I did, too." 

"What happened?" Bev asked his mother softly. 

There was a silent exchange behind him, but he didn't care. He looked at Eddie's arm, which was wrapped in fresh bandages. 

"His arm..." 

"I gave him stitches," Bev promised. "Why did you cut him?" 

"There was something in his arm," Richie said, his voice weak and breathy, "they were hurting him, they were hurting him-" 

"Who?" 

"I don't know!" 

"Okay, well-" 

"Has he eaten? When was the last time he ate?" 

"About three hours ago," Bev said calmly. "He was up for about 45 minutes. He's all taken care of." 

"Why did you knock him out?" Richie asked, completely deaf to the fact that he was talking. "He hates it when his sleeping schedule is messed up-" 

"You were asleep, we didn't know if we could trust him," his mother said. "Richie, sweetie, he had the same reaction to you being asleep. What happened?" 

"I-" 

He closed his eyes. 

The banana peel. 

Eddie's scared eyes as he fell. 

The explosion behind Richie as he ran away from the man he loved. Loves. Loves, present tense. He never stopped. 

He shook his head. He couldn't talk about it. He hadn't in all of those four years, and he didn't feel like starting now. 

"Okay, Richie," His mother whispered, kissing his hair. "I'm going to get you something to eat." 

\---

Hours later, it was dark. It was 11:57 when Eddie moved for the first time. He rolled over, away from him, groaning, which made Richie sit up straight. He didn't reach over and touch him. He was scared Eddie was going to disappear. He waited a moment and Eddie bolted upright, looking around wildly until he found Richie staring at him. 

"Richie?" 

His voice, gravely from sleep, was enough to make Richie start crying. 

"Eddie," he sobbed, "Eddie, I'm so sorry-" 

**Author's Note:**

> seriously tho y'all should watch the musical it's on YouTube, called Spies Are Forever
> 
> for Dick's character, all of the things he said in this fic he said in the musical. 
> 
> may you all find the happiness I felt when I had all these kittens on my lap
> 
> AGAIN, I DO NOT MEAN TO OFFEND ANYONE BY WRITING THIS. IT'S STAYING LIKE 85% TRUE TO THE MUSICAL. IF YOU'RE OFFENDED OR ANGRY, I AM TRULY, TRULY SORRY. I COPIED A LOT OF THE DIALOGUE AND THE ENTIRE PLOTLINE FROM THE MUSICAL ITSELF.
> 
> in other news, I am an emotional wreck after losing Unus Annus and it's been an entire month I am still sad


End file.
